


Hello Without Goodbye

by Bushwah



Category: Fake AH Crew (Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter)
Genre: (also regular sexual assault), (averted by consent), Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Amoric Horror, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bank Robbery, Begging, Cissexism, Crossover Pairings, Cunnilingus, D/s, Dirty Talk, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack Pattillo, Femslash, Fighting for Dominance, Flirting, Fluid Sexuality, Gaslighting, Girl Penis, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Infidelity, Interrogation, Light CBT, Loss of Identity, Manipulation, Masks, Masturbation, Misogyny, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Open Marriage, Pet Names, Petplay, Porn Watching, Power Imbalance, Scratching, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Addiction, Sexting, Spit Kink, Stalking, Switching, Tit Torture, Trans Female Jack Pattillo, Under-negotiated Kink, Workplace Sexual Harassment, abuser/abuser relationship, bimbo fetish, financial abuse, reference to faking illness, stigma on bisexual women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bushwah/pseuds/Bushwah
Summary: Jack has a particular fondness for people who think they're abusing her.
Relationships: Jack Pattillo/Geoff Ramsey, Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Jack Pattillo, Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Michael Jones, Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Original Male Character, jack pattillo/original male character
Kudos: 8
Collections: fear so intricate it’s indistinguishable from beauty; beauty so unbearable it’s indistinguishable from fear





	Hello Without Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Recidivism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743177) by [Bushwah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bushwah/pseuds/Bushwah). 



> The setting incorporates elements of my cult series "we the clay" and of the Model Citizen AU that inspired my previous Lindsay fic, Recidivism. It is not canon to either. Lindsay's husband Michael (MJ) and Jack's crewmate Michael (Mogar) are separate characters.
> 
> All relationships depicted are abusive except Lindsay/MJ.
> 
> This is an FPF fic based exclusively on the Fake AH Crew lore as set forth by Rooster Teeth Productions.

Jack has a particular fondness for people who think they're abusing her. Lately, she's been playing with a lawyer—Ms. Lindsay J.

Their game has rules, no less concrete for being unspoken. From the moment Jack is seen, she is subject to Ms. J's control. She must not draw attention to their relationship, as Ms. J is a married woman. However, Ms. J may choose to take certain risks which Jack has no right to decide.

Lindsay has a day job; Jack has intermittent work with no predictable pattern of locale. There is little to be lost in setting the rules thus, and much to be gained.

If Lindsay thinks she's 'catching' Jack, she won't notice that Jack arranged to be caught; or at least will remain oblivious to the power that implies.

The main exception to the convenience of the rule is if Lindsay happens to be present while Jack is working, but Jack considers it worth the risk. Lindsay's handle on her is real, but it's in Jack's hand, not screwed into the back of her head.

In the instance that the façade of a relationship _does_ collapse, Jack can simply let go.

* * *

Wheels is out on patrol, in full mask and gear, when Ms. J comes up to her saying, “Excuse me, miss. Do you have the time?”

That's a standard approach, but they're in Jack's territory now.

“Not here,” she says, quiet yet confident. She leaves no gap for Lindsay to insinuate herself, as she's always left before. She keeps walking.

This time, Lindsay follows.

* * *

Lindsay isn't quite sure what to think about having, apparently by accident, snared notorious gangster Wheels as a submissive.

But when Jack—her Jack, her lovely delicious Jack—appears across the coffee shop after her workday... well. She's not going to pass up the opportunity to acquire a little information.

“How did you know it was me?” Jack asks shyly.

“Redhead, loud shirt, nice tits... I took a wild guess.”

“You like my... um.” Jack tugs at her shirt, a nervous gesture that draws Lindsay's eyes down. “Do you want to touch them, mistress?”

“Not here.”

* * *

“Didn't realize you had a secret identity,” Lindsay says with Jack pinned down under her, squirming.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You didn't ask.”

Lindsay laughs. “I mean, it's not a problem or anything. Out there, you might be Los Santos's most wanted, but here? Here, you're nothing but my cute little toy. After all, you came back.”

Jack shudders, and Lindsay rubs the bulge of her cock more deliberately, sinks the fingernails of her other hand into her ample bosom. “What's the matter, cutie? Don't want me to know? Don't want me to be tracking the news to see where I might find you and _mark_ you up all over again?”

“I'm married too,” Jack whispers. Her hips buck against Lindsay's hand, and Lindsay leaves off tormenting her tits to lay a hand on her cheek. Her eyes are wild. _Afraid_. “He's dangerous,” she rambles. “I don't want you hurt, mistress—Lindsay.” She swallows, and confesses: “My husband is the Kingpin.”

* * *

Lindsay yanks Jack's bra off, ripping the delicate lace. Jack winces.

“Aww, what's wrong, babygirl?” Lindsay taunts. “Don't have the money to replace it?”

“No, um.”

“Don't tell me you'll have to go to a tailor. I might get jealous.”

“Um, I.”

“Well? Spit it out, I don't have all day.” Lindsay pinches Jack's tit meanly. The muscle in her neck jumps.

“It was a present from my husband.”

Lindsay sits back on her heels. “That's right,” she says, like she's realizing something. “You have a man to provide for you.”

“I—fuck, Lindsay.”

Lindsay pinches Jack's balls, somewhat more gently. Jack flinches, overbalances, and falls back on the bed.

“I bet you're not even bi,” Lindsay says, watching for the spark of defensive anger. It doesn't come. Jack hangs her head.

“You knew that? _Cold_ , woman.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Hey, I love my husband. Case in point: I don't destroy his shit.”

“You sure seem happy to be destroying your marriage.”

Lindsay palms Jack's breast deliberately. “Not if he doesn't find out.”

* * *

Lindsay's at the bank trying to sort out some fraudulent charges on her personal card—she knew she shouldn't have given it to that ecommerce site, but she's always had a soft spot for _Buffy_ merch—when she hears the order.

“Everyone down!”

That's not Jack; it's a sharp-dressed man with a gun, wearing a mask. Lindsay's body is lying on the floor, submitting, but her eyes are scanning the room. _There!_ Wheels moves confidently, not seeing her yet. Lindsay fixes her with a steady gaze and doesn't move.

* * *

They get each other alone in the bathroom—Jack followed her in “to supervise,” on the logic that the other gang members present were men. Later, Lindsay will be embarrassed at the production she made of being about to soil herself.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Jack pulls off her mask, revealing a conflicted expression. Lindsay smirks, grabs her ass and kisses her.

It ends up with Lindsay sprawled on a toilet with the seat down gasping for air, her prim skirt cast up out of the way, Jack looking up at her coyly from between her knees.

Jack got off once, right at the beginning, with Lindsay stroking her cock delicately and aiming her for the toilet. It didn't take long—Jack is easy for her, just as she should be. Then Lindsay came... four times? Probably four times. Fuck. How long has it been?

Lindsay waves her hand imperiously, trying to hide the tremor. “Go back to your husband,” she says, hoping for a flinch. “He'll be missing you.”

The flinch doesn't come. Jack's hands are splayed submissively, hovering above the bathroom floor. She looks up at Lindsay with calm acceptance, marred only by a slight wrinkling of one eyebrow. “Will you be all right, mistress?” She hesitates a moment, another... and the calm breaks. “Lindsay?”

Lindsay smooths her skirt back down over her dripping pussy, hypersensitive even to the brush of cloth on skin. “I'll be fine,” she says. She doesn't want to lose her own composure in front of Jack. “Carry me back out. Say I wasn't feeling well.”

“Lindsay, I—fuck, I can't believe I—”

“Pick me _up_ ,” Lindsay says. “I'll sell my part, make it easy for you. I look feverish, right?”

Jack blushes on cue.

* * *

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“What we did,” Nikolas says, as nervous as Lindsay's ever heard him, but clear through the phone. “When we had sex.”

“Oh, don't tell me you're having second thoughts.”

“It was good!” Nikolas hastens to confirm. “Ma'am. But you were... I was...”

“You know, a lot of men would've been glad to be getting cougar pussy without having to step outside their comfort zone.”

“I never thought about having a workplace romance—”

“Until you tripped and fell dick-first into one, no, I'm sure you didn't.”

“But if I had. I wouldn't have... I didn't... We weren't supposed to...”

“Out with it.”

“You were my _boss_ ,” Nikolas says, invigorated. “You shouldn't have done that. People will want to know.”

* * *

“Roll over,” Jack says. Nikolas obeys.

Jack gives him tummy rubs. Nikolas squirms, tongue hanging out. She catches him trying to keep himself from drooling and hooks her thumb into the side of his mouth. He stares at her, appropriately chastened. She's removed his pathetic attempt at a beard, so the drool runs down his acne-ridden chin unhindered.

It'll get on his collar, but that doesn't matter. She's not planning to keep him anyway.

“Who's a good boy,” she murmurs. If he had a tail, he'd be wagging it. Lacking the appropriate appendage, he flaps his forearm around instead. It hits her knee and he stops, shudders, and rests.

She removes her thumb from his mouth and wipes it fastidiously on his close-cropped hair. He twitches and moans. “You were perfect, honey, exceeded all expectations. You did so well confronting her, mm, I bet that was really hard for you, huh?”

Nikolas nods deliriously.

“You're _such_ a good boy. She didn't treat you right—good boys should be _treasured_. Not strung along and ignored.”

He butts against her hand on his cheek, and she laughs. “No, I won't be your Mistress. This is just a temporary thing, to get you back on your feet. You'll be doing all right without me soon enough.”

“I will, ma'am.”

Jack elects to let the title go.

* * *

Lindsay is distracted when Jack next sees her. Jack makes sure to recapture her attention.

She knows she has Lindsay when Lindsay stops _talking_. When her confident demands become whimpers and gasps. She grinds mindlessly on Jack's thigh, and Jack smirks. (Lindsay won't see it.)

“Good girl,” she murmurs under her breath, then pretends to realize what she's said and pulls away. Lindsay reaches for her, putting Jack's hand back on her hip, and Jack settles it there, and savors Lindsay's sigh.

* * *

Lindsay can't stop thinking about Jack. About when she might see her next, about what Jack might do to— _for_ her, about what she had Jack do last time they met...

She's getting attached, and she knows it. Not the first time, probably won't be the last. But she's a strong, self-sufficient woman, and she doesn't need a partner to take care of her.

So she doesn't text Jack. She puts her phone on silent and takes herself on a date, instead.

* * *

Lindsay has herself a nice sushi dinner in a restaurant with slow Japanese music playing, immersing herself in the experience. She returns home, changes into her most comfortable pajamas, and lounges on the couch watching BDSM porn.

She likes the way straight clips portray submissive women: bruises forming around an eager smile, afraid but needing more. Het femdom is typically overacted, and lesbian is worse. If something's boringly long or an active turn-off, she skips it, but otherwise she lets herself be immersed in the stream of filth.

At some point she discovers that she's rubbing herself through her clothing. She takes off her top, giving herself time to appreciate the decadent slide of the fabric on her skin. Her hand skims over her side, her breast. She angles a nail carefully to leave a line of burning pain just under her collarbone.

What? Scary women can like a little pain.

(Lindsay would like to see someone try to tell her she can't.)

* * *

She goes to take off her bottoms too, but she makes the mistake of glancing down to see her nails—bright red, finely detailed. She got Jack to do it, saying derisively that it was cheaper than a manicure; she meant to also berate Jack for any little mistakes, but didn't end up doing that.

Fuck, she's way too deep in this. She pauses her porn and brings up her text convo with her husband—apparently he sent “yeah that sounds fine” as the last message, she doesn't even remember what the conversation was about—and taps out “so about my girlfriend...”

The reply comes quickly. “what about her”

Lindsay starts typing “shes the worst” but deletes it in favor of “NOT according to plan.”

“aw :( you get dumped?”

“worse”

The phone rings, and Lindsay looks at it blankly for a moment before answering. “Yeah?”

“So you weren't dumped,” her husband says wryly. “What's going on, babe?”

“Caught feelings.” She's still wet, is the real insult. It's _sticky_.

“Is that a bad thing now?”

“It'll be a bad fucking thing when it inevitably goes down in flames.”

“I'll make sure we're stocked up on ice cream,” he says solemnly. “Do you want to break it off now? Pull off the Band-Aid®?”

Lindsay shakes her head, starting to smile. “Nah. Live a little, yeah? I'm gonna stay in tonight, though.”

“That's my girl. Want me to see if I can come home early?”

Lindsay thinks about it, but... no, she doesn't want that. “Still gay, more's the pity. I'll see if I can't get something for you, though.”

“You know me well.”

He hangs up, and Lindsay stretches, and turns back on the video.

* * *

Lindsay's pants come off, then her underwear. She winds herself up, step by step. She has the presence of mind to take some pictures for her husband: her hand trailing along her breast, one long-nailed finger brushing her clit.

She considers taking a regular selfie too—he's always loved her wicked smirk—but she can't quite summon it, so she discards the idea. She's enough as she is. She's _gorgeous_ ; he's lucky to have her. Anyone would be.

Her cunt clenches. For the first time in a while, she's tempted to finger herself, but that's not going to work; her nails are weapons. Maybe she should've taken Michael up on his offer. _Or texted Jack..._ No. That way lies madness.

She keeps rubbing her folds, teasing and stroking, but it's just not enough. Maybe all the smoking hot partnered sex she's been having has gotten her too reliant on penetration. Poor her.

But she can feel the pleasure receding, falling away before she's _done_ , and, fuck, that can't happen. Her husband's gotta have nail clippers somewhere. She considers calling him back for a moment, but no, this is just fucking _embarrassing_ , she's going to deal with this herself, at least until it becomes a fun story she can tell about that one time she was miserably in love with a gangster's bepenised wife and couldn't rub one out.

He keeps them in the same drawer as his shaving supplies, apparently, and she applies them competently, if not from recent experience. She tests the nails on the sensitive skin under her breasts—good enough—and plunges them into her cunt.

It's more a relief than a pleasure. This, this is right. This is how it's supposed to feel. Fucking herself with her fingers sends echoes through her whole body, dizzyingly good. It's almost enough to make her forget what she was here for.

But getting herself off is supposed to involve an _off_. She glances up at the screen, where a man is fucking a woman doggy-style with a spank on every other thrust, and looks away again. There's nothing for her there.

She wants the psychology. She wants the thrill of the chase, the payoff. She imagines a pretty blonde airhead sucking her clit, putting on a strapon (Lindsay helps her fasten the straps) and _fucking_ her, giving her what she needs—her hips buck, slick fingers against her clit, Jack saying _good girl_ —

She comes. Pulses of pleasure, drawn out with the ease of experience. She slumps on the couch, catching her breath, her hand still buried in her cunt.

She doesn't feel satisfied. She doesn't feel empowered. She feels more entangled than ever. She leaves the TV running as she steps into the shower. Maybe the heat of the water will help her feel a little more human.

* * *

Jack is outside Lindsay's workplace at the end of the day, fidgeting and looking around. Her eyes light up with recognition when she sees Lindsay, but she doesn't approach, just looks at Lindsay with tremulous hope.

Lindsay hasn't been going for coffee after work, and it seems Jack has noticed.

“I suppose you're going to ask me for money?” she asks flippantly.

“Don't you recognize me?” Jack replies. “I know I've fallen on hard times, but don't you know me?”

“Oh, sorry,” Lindsay says with a fake laugh, “you used to look pretty different.” She doesn't realize until afterward that Jack is _trans_ , but fuck it, she's gone this far. She falls in step with Jack, just gals being pals. “What's your name these days?”

Jack's voice goes soft and intimate. “You know my name, Mistress.”

Lindsay staunchly looks away.

* * *

Jack and Lindsay go through the usual dance of checking into a hotel, this time with Lindsay conspicuously paying in accordance with the cover story she provided. Lindsay takes Jack upstairs to the room, and Lindsay genuinely doesn't know what she's expecting, but when Jack gasps and cups Lindsay's hand in both of hers, she knows she's found it.

“Mistress, your nails!” Jack exclaims. Lindsay tries halfheartedly to tug away, and Jack flinches and lets go.

“What about them,” Lindsay rasps.

“You're not okay.”

Lindsay walks to the bed and sits down. “I don't want to talk about it.” She doesn't know what to do with her hands.

Jack follows, earnest; wanting to help, where she can't do anything but hurt. “Mistress, what _happened_?”

Lindsay feels tears threatening her composure, and she lies back, trying to make it look like luxury rather than abjection. “I fucked up,” she says, “this is all fucked up, I shouldn't be here.”

“Do you want to go? Or should I—”

“No!” she says, too loud, and covers her face with her hands, briefly, to squeeze her eyes shut. “No, I—I'm fine.”

“If you say so,” Jack says dubiously, and then Jack is touching her thigh, and Jack's other hand is a firm weight on her breast, grounding and exhilarating at once, and Lindsay _is_ crying.

Jack hesitates at the first sob. Lindsay can tell she's going to talk, and Lindsay _can't_ , can't take any more, so she says _don't stop, just please don't stop_ , and Jack seems to understand; or, at least, she doesn't stop.

* * *

Jack brings Lindsay to another shuddering orgasm and pets her hip in the afterglow, letting her hands wash over her. Lindsay is still wearing her blouse, her slacks are around her ankles, and she's only mostly stopped crying, but she's still leaning into Jack's touch. It's a sight to fucking behold.

“It's okay to need me, mistress,” Jack reassures her.

She makes a convulsive movement. “Don't _call_ me that.”

Jack purrs. “It's okay to need me, Lindsay. It's okay. I'm here now.”


End file.
